Hetalia! (APH Rare pair week 2k16)
by Asylum-Session
Summary: Ice; CanUkr. Dawn and Dusk; FraPan. Memories In The Rain; FraPan. Hanabi; FraPan. Little Talks; IceLiech. Sunshine Smile; KorBela.
1. Ice (CanUkr, Hetalia)

_In which Matthew takes the time to slow down.  
_

Day one of Hetalia rare pair week 2k16 – Sports (oh no, my worst subject). I was going to do FraPan all week, but then I couldn't think of anything for them for this day so CanUkr came to mind and I immediately thought of the figure skater/ice hockey player dynamic. I know little to nothing about either, but I'm trying my hardest, I swear (I honestly just researched all of this, so if it's wrong, I apologize). This is shorter than I would've liked, but. It ended up being a sort of human-verse, though (and probably OOC children but). xD Also, what are titles apparently. .

* * *

It awes Matthew how different two people can be on the ice.

He grew up with hockey, a skull rattling sport that knocks out people _and_ their teeth. He's used to brute force, quick movements, and being able to stand his ground. Matthew Williams has suffered through concussions and even losing a tooth when he was younger and all his adult teeth had yet to come in.

It isn't like he hasn't seen figure skaters before. He catches them practicing sometimes on the ice rinks and pauses to watch occasionally. They're a change from the hockey players he's accustomed to. Figure skaters are graceful and flexible and daring in a different sort of way.

Still, none astound him quite like Yekaterina.

They're out today on a sort of date that neither actually refers to as a date because they're both too shy to. It isn't uncommon; they sort of tip-toe around each other a lot. Matthew knows he's meant to make the first move, but he can't help but feel she's _way_ too good for him.

It's rather funny to him, actually. She doesn't see herself as beautiful, but Matthew can't bring himself to take his eyes off of her. It's freezing cold and the nearby lake has frozen over enough for them to go skating. Yekaterina's already out on the ice and Matthew forgets to tie up his skates the rest of the way in favor of half gaping at her.

It's funny to him, because beautiful doesn't even _begin_ to describe Yekaterina Braginskaya.

Normally, she's scatterbrained and perhaps a bit clumsy and overly apologetic, and he loves that side of her dearly. But on the ice she looks confident and free and moves with the most graceful movements that Matthew has ever seen. She's in her element here, no doubt about it. Yekaterina looks relaxed as she cuts smoothly across the thick ice and makes a clean leap, twirling midair and still managing to stick the landing. She's certainly a figure skater, that's for sure – Matthew himself would wipe out if he dared to attempt something like that.

Confusion briefly flickers through Matthew when she abruptly halts, but she's staring at him and he snaps back to reality.

"Matvey, come on!" She's laughing, and Matthew abruptly realizes he barely even has his skates on.

"Sorry, Kat," he says quickly, rather embarrassed.

Matthew hears her skate closer as he laces up his own skates with practiced speed and takes her hand when she offers it to him. Yekaterina pulls him onto the ice and releases him so he can steady himself. She skates back a few paces, smiling warmly beneath her scarf.

"Hey, Kat," he starts once he balances himself and looks up, "how do you do all of that stuff?"

She makes a full loop and then drags to a T-stop, halting a bit in front of him. "What do you mean?"

"The leaps," he tries, "and when you, eh, pull your leg up and all those fancy tricks."

He knows he sounds stupid, but she doesn't laugh. Yekaterina just smiles and skates forward to stand directly before him, offering out her hand.

"Do you want me to show you?"

Matthew supposes it can't hurt; he just hopes he won't wipe out. He nods and accepts her gloved hand.

"Technically," Yekaterina starts, bringing her leg up over her hand and reaching back to hold it with her free hand, "this is called a catchfoot. When it's over your head, it's usually for the Beillmann spin."

"The-"

"Beillmann spin."

"I don't..."

She laughs, "It's okay, Matvey."

Yekaterina goes on to explain where he should keep his weight in order to maintain his balance – that part isn't hard for Matthew; he's used to balancing in the middle of an adrenaline driven game. He has more issues with actually getting his leg up. As it turns out, he can't actually get his leg any higher than nearly parallel with the ice before he starts wobbling and Kat, skating backwards still, has to return to two feet to keep both of them balanced.

"I'm no good at this," Matthew decides, huffing as he brings his leg down again.

Yekaterina releases his hand and comes to a halt, watching Matthew as he skates around her. He's used to hard movements, colliding with other players and focusing on getting the puck to the goal before it can get swiped. Despite the fact that they're both ice sports, they're so different and it baffles Matthew.

"It's okay," Yekaterina is saying, "it takes a lot of practice. Do you want to try again?"

He hesitates, and finally nods. "One more time."

The Ukrainian woman lights up and takes his hand once more, pulling him back into a smooth path across the frozen lake. She's going backwards again and this time he sets his expression in determination, watching as she brings her leg up behind her easily. This time, he gets his leg higher and bends his knee, reaching back to grip his skate so he can pull it up further.

He almost has it when he staggers on his other leg and his skate tips forward. He yelps and Kat lets out a little shriek, unable to balance them out in time. She drops her leg abruptly as they topple, but Matthew manages to shift his weight quickly enough that he ends up being the one hitting the ice. Yekaterina lands on top of him with a surprised little sound and a dazed expression.

The sky, Matthew concludes, is quite pretty during this time in the winter. His head hurts from the impact with the ice, but at least Yekaterina isn't the one who hit the frozen surface. She lifts her head, hands braced against his chest.

"Oh," she says suddenly, as though just then realizing their rather odd position.

Her face blazes red, but Matthew speaks before she can start to apologize.

"Kat?" He asks, turning his blue-violet eyes to her.

Wide eyed, Yekaterina blinks back down at him. "Y-Yes?"

Their noses brush, but Matthew isn't really thinking about what he's saying. His thoughts are more occupied by how pretty she is when she smiles.

"Would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?"

"Oh, Matvey," she laughs, leaning closer to brush his bangs away and kiss his forehead, "you've hit your head too hard. Of course I will."

Kat crawls back and gets to her knees so she can help Matthew sit up. He's dizzy, but he's half blaming it on the giddy feeling that rises into his chest at Yekaterina's acceptance.

"Hot cocoa?" Matthew asks, as they both get back to their feet and head towards the bank.

"Hot cocoa," she agrees, smiling a heart-stopping smile.


	2. Dawn and Dusk (FraPan, Hetalia)

_In which France and Japan's differences are what make them stronger.  
_

Day two of Hetalia rare pair week – Dawn and Dusk. Short little oneshot. I love FraPan dynamics to this because it fits them super well. Ahh, I kept listening to I'll Cover You from Rent while I was writing this. . Swings wildly between human names and country names. And just because I reference back to it a lot without much explanation, France is also referred to as the sun, dawn, or day. Japan is also referred to as the moon, dusk, or night. Also, I'm so original with titles, can't you tell.

* * *

Comparing France and Japan is a task few dare to undertake. They are as different as the sun and moon, the day and night, or dawn and dusk. It baffles others that they manage to work so fluidly together against all of the odds.

East of the sun lies Japan.

Kiku is comparable to the dusk. He is closed, all darkness and knowing eyes. Japan is the explosions of saturated oranges and deep reds that streak the mauve and azure sky, bringing moonlight and stars in his wake. He is the cold, the silent, and the secretive; one who knows all but reveals little. He is the means to an end. Japan is selfish and he knows it; everybody calls him kind, but he is not. However, the night is beautiful to the right people, and Francis makes sure that Japan knows how beautiful he is.

"Why do you like him?"

Someone had asked Japan once, and he can't entirely place who. He thinks to say it was Germany, because a part of him vaguely remembers Italy's lilting laugh somewhere nearby as he danced around outside of Japan's house. Kiku himself was sitting outside with tea, watching the setting sun. The question, of course, hadn't necessarily caught him off guard – he'd heard whispers and he seldom missed the odd looks. Ludwig just wasn't typically nosy; regardless, Kiku didn't really have to think about the answer. He'd been drinking green tea, sencha specifically, and it had sort of warmed him in a way that made him wonder if he felt warm because of the tea or because of the thought of France.

He'd lowered his cup and watched the dying colors in the sky.

"He calls me beautiful."

Japan knows that France is the beautiful one, though. They have their balance, and Japan's dark cannot exist without light. Inevitably, the sun comes up and the world still spins.

And thus, dawn.

West of the moon lies France.

Francis is comparable to the dawn. He is an open book, arms wide for anybody to read. France is a fiery spirit in love with the very idea of love; he shines like a beacon. He is the streaks of sunlight that split the lapis sky, illuminating the clouds burning shades of orange and yellow and bringing the warmth and light behind him like a blanket. He is the warm, the outspoken, and the one with more friends than he can count on either hand. France signifies a new beginning, the start of a new day.

There are those times, though; the little quiet moments in places where they can be alone.

He recalls the sensation of cold fingers skimming his throat, curling around the back of his neck and pulling him near as Kiku leans over him, forehead pressing to his own. Japan's fingers are always cold and sometimes he lets France get away with holding his hand in public, because France's are always warm. They share careful, tentative kisses in dark and private places, breath mingling within the limited spaces. Kiku is not overtly affectionate like Francis is, but Francis is good at taking it in stride and he lets Japan take things at his own pace. The dawn will wait forever for the dusk.

They spend a lot of their time together in silence, curling together when Kiku will allow it. It's full of idle touches, reaching out to brush legs against legs or trail fingertips over arms and faces in the most innocent of ways. People think him lecherous, but Kiku knows Francis is not like that. The blond has no desire to push Japan into anything he doesn't want. His touches are searching and comfortable, trailing warm paths down Kiku's back as though to make sure he's still there.

There are the moments that Japan simply doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want to curl with the warmth of France's daylight, and the dawn settles for just being close. The dusk will card his fingers gently through the sun streaks of hair and admire the way Francis' face softens at the gentle feeling.

Neither of them speak, but neither of them need to.

With or without words, they're good at understanding. From dusk to dawn, they seize the opportunity to be together, doing what they please. Sometimes they will talk, they'll talk all through the night and until the sun rises about anything and everything they can think about. Other times, they're content to lay in silence, one's head nestled beneath the other's chin or in the crook of their neck while the other would press their lips just briefly to the first one's head.

They wait in silence for dusk to pass and dawn to begin. Japan mourns the darkness, but he rises with the sun. France loves the sun, but he basks beneath the moon. Together, they take things day by day.

Even now, they curl together. Japan wordlessly nuzzles beneath France's chin and Francis folds Kiku into his arms, where the smaller man fits perfectly. The moonlight filters through the partially opened curtains and falls just right on Kiku's features; France can't ever help but to admire him.

Dawn smiles gently upon dusk and leans down to press his lips to dark hair.

"Did you know," Francis begins, a soft whisper into Kiku's hair, "that you're the only one capable... of stealing my breath away?"

Japan stirs and slides his arm loosely over Francis' hip, cold fingers slipping beneath the hem of the man's shirt to trace over warm skin. France shivers at the cold touch, but he too, falls silent.

They don't pay attention to the time. The day comes when it comes, but they relax in the time they aren't weighed down by the responsibilities of their countries.

Time, it seems, has it's own version of forever.


	3. Memories In The Rain (FraPan, Hetalia)

_In which Kiku uses a rainy, summer night to think.  
_

Day three of Hetalia rare pair week – Water. I decided to go with rain because it's relaxing to me, but it's also the time when I feel like thinking things through the most. Plus, I mean. Summer rain. Come on. Human names are used (but it's still technically nation-verse), and it's FraPan again, of course. Gotta write the OTP, you know? So playlist song for this one (aka, the song I kept listening to on repeat) is till the day we meet by Cicada. It was also storming out. Coincidence, I think not. Anyways, it's about two in the morning here as I post this so ignore my tired rambling.

* * *

It rains a lot in Tokyo.

Kiku, who doesn't live far outside of the city, is accustomed to the rainstorms. They're a constant, steady rhythm that whisper for him to stay inside that day, drink tea, and relax. It's a regulated beat against the roof that reminds him to grab his umbrella if he must go out, or lulls him into a sleep deeper than usual. Kiku is a light sleeper, but the rain has a way of making the uptight man relax, think clearer, and sleep better. It's distracting, really; he loves the rain more than he should.

He isn't sure why the rain woke him up.

Kiku disentangles himself carefully from the other sleeping body, watching as the man turns over and buries his face in Kiku's pillow, but doesn't awaken. He catches glimpses of lightning illuminating some areas as he pads silently to the kitchen to brew some chamomile tea. The thunder makes his house tremble, but Kiku feels a calm wash over him and hardly glances up.

It's a summer rain, but Kiku still has this distinctive feeling that it's freezing cold. The moonlight is managing, somehow, so when Kiku slides aside the doors to his engawa, he can see the raindrops racing each other down the windows. The windows are the last barrier between himself and the storm. Kiku keeps it that way. He merely seats himself with his legs tucked comfortably beneath him.

Lightning crackles across the two A.M. sky and the low rumble of thunder that follows almost seems to reverberate through his bones. Warmth from the tea seeps into his fingertips and it reminds him of a familiar, warm hand closing carefully around his own when their fingers brush in a silent permission. He spares a careful glance back towards the direction of his bedroom.

It rains a lot in Tokyo.

Now that Kiku thinks about it, they spend a lot of time in Tokyo. Francis loves it here, he's told Kiku; he loves the busy city and the lights and the people. They visit Paris often, of course, but Kiku isn't one to refuse when Francis wants to come to his place. He loves his home.

Still, it's a particular memory that lingers behind his eyes. It's a dream-like essence, dancing in a haze as it's brought forth by the downpour.

He'd been waiting for Francis, actually.

The Tokyo sky had grown dark and Kiku had forgotten his umbrella at home. He'd scolded himself; that wasn't like him in the first place and they'd had a rain warning that morning. Granted, thinking back, Kiku supposes he could have just stepped into any shop, but the thought hadn't really occurred to him at the time.

The city, as always, was awake. Footsteps against concrete and lilting voices of all different sounds and tones had filled the air with chatter and electronic billboards with enlarged faces or advertisements playing on them reflected off the sides of every glassy-looking building – this was Tokyo.

When the rain started, a part of Kiku had been expecting it. Regardless, that had done nothing to persuade him to seek shelter until Francis arrived, hopefully better off than Kiku himself was at the time. Instead, though, Kiku's steps had simply slowed to an eventual stop as the clouds overhead finally broke and let the rain fall. All around him, umbrellas rose in fluid motions and people went about their business, paying the rain little to no attention.

Kiku remembers being entirely unable to comprehend _why._

Kiku had simply halted and tipped his head back. The rain came down in a mighty torrent, soaking him to the bone and rolling smoothly off of his skin. The water arched over the bridge of his nose and rolled across his cheeks like tears. Frankly, it had astounded Kiku; he'd been completely mesmerized.

He'd only noticed Francis pushing through the crowd when the blond had cried out in alarm and held his red umbrella a bit higher so he could squirm through the last few people. Kiku had opened his eyes and lowered his head just in time to reach out and steady Francis as the blue eyed man nearly came barreling into him.

"Mon dieu, where is your umbrella?!" Francis had half squawked, bustling around Kiku like a mother hen.

Nearby, a bell had chimed as a door clicked open and rattled shut. The rain had grown heavier, bludgeoning out a tempo of madness against the umbrella that Francis had thrust into Kiku's hand so the blond could shrug off his jacket. Kiku had only been able to stare, one thought floating around in his mind.

Would he lean over and kiss this blue eyed man?

Francis had fixed his jacket over Kiku's shoulders and taken the umbrella back to keep it over both of their heads. He'd slipped an arm around Kiku to pull him close, and Kiku had made no move to protest.

The bell jingled again and the door clicked open and clattered shut.

When would the time come again?

It was rather amusing to him, actually; Kiku was not the type to do things in the spur of the moment. But he'd lifted his gaze to Francis and reached to touch the blond's cheek delicately, almost hesitantly.

"May I?" Kiku had whispered, and Francis had allowed himself to be drawn near.

People parted around them and just for that moment, Kiku had completely forgotten they were in the middle of a bustling city. He had not missed the way Francis swallowed and allowed his blue – oh, but they'd looked a soft shade of purple in that lighting – eyes to flicker down.

"Only if you want to," he'd replied, just as quietly.

In that moment, he'd wanted nothing more.

Kiku smiles fondly at the memory and sets his empty cup aside, rising and making his way to the windows. Carefully, he slides one aside. It's only enough for him to slip out if he turns sideways, but that isn't his goal. He merely sticks one arm outside to let the rain run over his fingertips.

"Is that my shirt?"

The voice, hoarse from sleep, makes Kiku lift his head. His gaze swivels and falls upon Francis as he steps onto the engawa. It's obvious enough that he just woke, if his slightly ruffled hair and half lidded eyes have anything to say. Kiku's gaze darts back to the storm.

"I was wrong," he murmurs, more to himself than anything, "it's warm."

Kiku hears the soft sound of Francis crossing the engawa towards him and expects it when he feels the other man's arms circle around his waist. Francis rests his chin on Kiku's shoulder with a sleepy sigh and his right hand drags up to cross the Japanese man's chest and settle over Kiku's heart.

"You're always so distant, mon amour," Francis tells him, a soft murmur that barely stirs the hair by Kiku's ear, "it's like you're always just out of my reach."

Perhaps he isn't ready to say it out loud yet, but Kiku knows he is irrevocably in love with this man.

"Yes," Kiku agrees with a gentle smile, drawing his hand back inside and sliding the window shut, "perhaps it's just something to do with the rain."

This gets a soft chuckle from the Frenchman.

"Come, let's go back to bed," he requests, arms slowly sliding away.

Kiku catches Francis' hand, only briefly, and gives a soft squeeze. Francis coaxes him forward and presses a brief kiss to his forehead. As Kiku follows him back to the room, he only briefly pauses to spare a glance back at the storm. Lightning illuminates the sky and Kiku only smiles, before he slides the doors shut. Kiku takes his place in the bed, fitting perfectly into Francis' arms, head braced beneath the blond's chin.

And he drifts into nothingness, lulled away by the rain.


	4. Hanabi (FraPan, Hetalia)

_In which Francis and Kiku take some time to enjoy themselves._

Day four of Hetalia rare pair week – Culture. Actually wasn't feeling this one, but I decided hey, let's at least write a short thing instead of skipping it. So yes, FraPan again (sue me). I was going to do something in France this time, but I couldn't really find anything, so I settled for doing the annual hanabi taikai held on the Sumida River in Tokyo (guess who watched videos and researched for hours on this freaking fireworks display). Who knows, I probably got everything totally wrong so don't mind me. Well, here we go, FraPan watching some fireworks in yukatas. I was going to doodle something, but then I remembered I can't draw so, yeah. Small oneshot with a terribly unoriginal title instead.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy shifts idly from foot to foot in the navy and gray yukata Kiku has somehow managed to convince him to wear. He loves his boyfriend dearly - really, he does - but Francis just doesn't understand Kiku's cultural wear. Regardless, he _is_ here for a festival and Kiku had asked nicely, so he supposes he can bear with it for a while. At least it isn't ridiculously uncomfortable, he supposes, fiddling with the belt again.

As though sensing this, Kiku's head slowly turns and he fixes the blond with a look.

Francis immediately stops messing with it. He's already caused it to loosen twice, and he doesn't think Kiku is too keen on fixing it another time.

"So remind me," Francis starts, pulling on his shoes at the door and watching as Kiku slips on his geta, "where exactly are we going again?"

"Sumida River," Kiku tells him, getting to his feet and grabbing his bag, "or at least as close to it as we can get."

"For a firework display?"

"Don't worry too much, Francis," Kiku laughs softly, "you'll enjoy it, I promise."

It's evening in the city and the lights are coming to life, electronic screens and buildings brightening the area. Unsurprisingly, most people appear to be wearing similar traditional clothing to himself and Kiku. It's amazing, actually; he can't understand anything they're saying, but everybody is chattering and they look excited.

People cover the streets near the river; they're standing and sitting on mats and blankets alike. Kiku finds a spot where they can sit and spreads out the blanket he'd brought in his bag, taking a seat. Francis joins him.

"Okay," says the blond, turning to face the dark haired man, "so history behind this?"

"Of course," Kiku chuckles, leaning back. "Basically, these kind of festivals started back in the Edo period, though they were different then. Nowadays, it always occurs on the last day of July and it's actually just a big competition between rival pyrotechnic groups. That started back in the Edo time period as well, with the Tamaya and Kagiya guilds. Actually, you'll hear people say those names a lot."

Francis laughs, "So it's a giant competition?"

"Yes," Kiku tells him, "each group constantly tries to out do the other and it makes for an impressive show. Sometimes they'll do really complicated things, too, like Doraemon, Pikachu, or kanji."

"That's impressive, actually," Francis murmurs, looking up.

The sky grows darker as evening turns to night. They watch as the first firework is fired into the air and bursts in an explosion of color and crackling noise. It's followed rapidly by others that are equally as impressive, if not more. Francis is in awe, eyes wide and lips slightly parted as he watches the colors and designs illuminate the darkness.

Kiku just smiles.

"I told you that you'd enjoy it."


	5. Little Talks (IceLiech, Hetalia)

_In which Emil enjoys a refreshing optimism that sheds a little light on his world._

Day five (number 1) of Hetalia rare pair week – Refreshment. I'm actually doing two oneshots today and tomorrow because I was indecisive and decided to (stupidly) do both/all. So here's the first one, and it's IceLiech because they are precious babes. Human names once again, mostly just fluff. Emil is secretly a sentimental, awkward babe. Lili's insecure. I'm dying inside, send help. Is it just me or are my one line summaries getting worse? Um, yeah, totally had Of Monsters and Men on repeat. Little Talks, specifically. Aka, title once again. Sigh.

* * *

"What flavor do you want, Emil?"

He keeps running the word _sanctuary_ through his mind, turning it over until he knows every nook and cranny. The definition remains the same – a place of refuge or safety. Despite this, he can't stop putting the word to her smiling face. She feels like a sanctuary to him; she feels like a _home._

"Mint chocolate chip."

She'll get chocolate chip cookie dough again. It's her favorite, he knows, even though she does tend to be adventurous when it comes to ice cream. He'll offer to pay her back and she'll refuse like she always does when they go out for summer walks. It's a comfortable routine, just like the way she always wears cute tank tops in July – today she's wearing a white one with a little panda holding a heart shaped balloon – tucked into high waist shorts with a wide brim hat. He always teasingly comments on how childish it is, and she always puffs out her cheeks indignantly before pretending to ignore him.

It's refreshing.

"Here you go!"

Emil takes the ice cream as Lili offers it to him and murmurs a thanks. Really, he isn't that fond of the summer heat, but he can't resist those doe eyes Lili gives him when she really wants him to come out with her. She's a change from the Nordics, though – her warm smile is so different from Mathias' wide grin and her lilting laughter is a far cry from Tino's little giggles. He doesn't necessarily want to compare her to the sun, because all he ever does in the presence of said burning ball of gas is just sort of squint and grimace.

He's still hung up on _sanctuary_ , he supposes.

Emil falls into step beside Lili as she carries on down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, short hair stirring beneath in the faint, warm, summer breeze. Normally, she does most of the talking because he's content with listening, but they're both silent for the time being, simply observing cyclists and tourists as they pass. His gaze keeps straying to her, though.

"Emil, your ice cream is going to melt."

There's a small spot of ice cream at the corner of her smiling lips. Her tongue darts out to lick it away.

"What?"

She reaches over to him and swipes a bit of his ice cream before it can melt over his fingers. Emil starts, the action bringing him back to reality. He lifts the cone to his mouth to lick away the parts that have started inching down the cone. Lili just laughs, and now it's Emil's turn to adopt the half childish expression, puffing out his cheeks and averting his eyes in embarrassment. His cheeks heat up and she peers out at him from beneath the brim of her hat, smiling.

"I tried to tell you."

He pats his shirt in search of his sunglasses and Lili fishes them out of her bag, passing them to him. Emil slides them on, immediately relaxing his eyes now that he can see without the sun blinding him.

"I was distracted," he replies shortly, and they fall silent again.

Lili hums quietly as she eats her ice cream. Emil doesn't immediately place the song, until she begins the main verse. His eyes light up in recognition. The band comes straight from his homeland, after all – he's almost ashamed he hadn't realized sooner. A little smile creeps onto his lips and he turns his focus to finishing his ice cream before it melts.

"I envy the clouds," Lili tells him a while later, quite suddenly.

A pair of children sprint across their path a few yards away. Lili looks up from beneath the wide brim of her hat; the sunlight dapples her fair skin and illuminates her wide, green eyes. It occurs to Emil that Lili has freckles dusting her shoulders. He turns his gaze to her face, and then to the few, wispy clouds that drift lazily overhead.

"Why?"

She just sort of smiles and lowers her gaze again, clasping her hands behind her and kicking a loose pebble as she resumes walking. Emil hesitates a moment, before hurrying after her. Lili's brief distraction rolls into the neatly trimmed grass and she looks up.

"They're so free," she finally admits, "just drifting on by."

Emil gets the distinct feeling that Lili wants to fly, too.

She's a change from the others. Nobody else has dreams quite like hers. Lukas knows his limits and Berwald has always seemed perfectly content where he is with Tino and Peter. It's little talks like this that make him reevaluate things often. He knows where he stands in perspective to life, but Lili works endlessly towards her goals and Emil can't help but admire that. He's a pessimist, really, but her optimism is almost refreshing to him. He supposes it's part of the reason he was drawn to her in the first place.

"You'll fly too, someday."

The words are meant to be genuine and reassuring, but they come out sounding awkward and he looks down. Lili just smiles and pauses, tilting her hat back and stretching up to kiss his cheek carefully. Emil wonders if he's just imagining the way the temperature rises. He fiddles with his bracelet - one she'd made him a long time ago, actually – and passes his sunglasses back to her for safekeeping.

"Thank you, Emil."

She beams at him and he wants to just die, because he doesn't deserve to be in her presence – much less holding her hand, he adds, when her fingers curl around his and she pulls him along. Emil wonders if it's possible to spontaneously combust a little on the inside. He raises his free hand to shield his briefly sensitive eyes. The sun peeks around the outline of his fingers and for a moment, he considers allowing it to blind him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He immediately wishes she wasn't able to startle him so easily. She's watching him through wide, lively eyes and she's got that little smile on her face again; the one that tells him she knows he's thinking about _something_ and it's useless to deny otherwise. Her fingers are warm in his and he catches himself hoping his hands aren't cold. They've been in his pockets all day, but that doesn't change anything.

No, he won't compare her to the sun.

"You're beautiful."

Lili falters, as though it's the last thing she expects to hear. Emil didn't mean to blurt it, but now that it's out he's certainly thinking about it. She's beautiful to him. Red dusts her cheeks, and her green eyes go wide. Her lips part slightly, as though she wants to say something, and Emil catches himself thinking about wanting to kiss her for what certainly isn't the first time that day. She is beautiful to him because she is kind and patient and optimistic.

She looks away.

"I'm not."

The way she says it makes him hesitate. She doesn't believe him; it's evident by her tone. His mind whirs. Cute, pretty, adorable. It clicks; nobody ever calls her beautiful. Little words like pretty and cute are sweet, he supposes, but in the end they don't get a point across. Lili does not see herself as beautiful. She sees herself as _childish_ and _cute_ and perhaps _pretty,_ on occasion, but never _beautiful._ Emil squeezes her hand and Lili looks up. Wordlessly, he tugs her to a quiet place under a tree so they aren't standing in the middle of the path and drawing attention.

"You are," he tells her.

Lili pulls a flower from a nearby branch.

"No," she repeats, more to herself, "I'm not."

He pulls her close, grips her chin gently with his free hand.

"You are," he says again, as seriously as he can manage, "you're the most beautiful person I've ever met, Lili Zwingli."

And for a second, she looks as though she believes him. Lili's gaze softens and she stretches up on her toes to wind the flower into his hair carefully; his hair is just barely long enough, but she makes it work. He doesn't move until she's done and rocks back on her heels. Emil reaches up to touch the flower and Lili smiles that smile of hers.

"Thank you, Emil. Really. I'm very happy I met you."

Perhaps he will compare her to the sun.

Emil Steilsson absolutely melts.


	6. Sunshine Smile (KorBela, Hetalia)

_In which Natalya can't figure out the man with the sunshine smile._

Day five (number 2) of Hetalia rare pair week – Refreshment. So yeah, here's my second one for day five (a little late), and I'll have two on day six, too (aka, how far can author push herself before her internal screaming becomes external). This one is KorBela because I was feeling them for this day. Nat's a pessimist with a sailor's mouth, Yong Soo is persistent. Human names again. Playlist this time consisted of four songs – Fairytale by Alexander Rybak, Pretty Girl (The Way) by Sugarcult, Make-Up (Pretty Waste) by Sugarcult, and Hate Every Beautiful Day by… You guessed it. Sugarcult.

* * *

Natalya Arlovskaya keeps telling herself to focus on anything but his face.

She tells herself to focus instead on the wisps of his hair and that irritating curl of his, or even on the black shirt he's wearing that has the word 'KOREA' printed in large, obnoxious letters beneath the South Korean flag. Despite her insistence, her gaze keeps traveling back to his eyes and that blinding grin of his. Finally, Natalya just sighs heavily and covers her face with both hands, wishing she could take back the words that unintentionally slipped from her mouth.

"You piss me off," she finally informs him, voice muffled by the heel of her palm.

She practically _hears_ his grin widen. "Why," he begins, "because I'm somehow both charming and handsome at the same time?"

"No," Natalya growls back, lowering her hands to fix him with a fierce look, "because no matter how many times I tell you to fuck off, you _don't take a hint._ "

"But you-"

" _Don't_ say it. Do _not_ say it, Im Yong Soo."

Yong Soo sighs dramatically and drops his cheek against the table's cold surface. The cafe around them is alive with chatter and Natalya honestly wishes everyone would quiet down for just two seconds, just enough for her to get her thoughts together. Yong Soo isn't helping. He keeps beaming at her like he _cares_ and it's growing increasingly irritating.

Why is it _him?_

Her head aches.

Without pause, Natalya rises abruptly and grabs her messenger bag, smoothing out her sundress as she spins on her heel and exits. Yong Soo almost seems prepared for this; he puts down the money for both of their drinks and is on her heels before she can even walk out of the cafe. The Korean even manages to slip out past her and holds the door.

And _God,_ it frustrates her.

"You... You are bothering me," Natalya bites out, occupying her fingers with braiding her platinum hair so she won't do anything. "You are everything I hate – irresponsible, selfish, _immature –_ so why did it have to be you? Why did I-?"

Her fingers grow frustrated and she drops her hair. Yong Soo is watching her carefully, and he isn't smiling anymore. It isn't pity, but something else lurks behind his honey brown eyes. Despite how open he usually is, she can't read him. He reaches towards her.

She turns away.

"Why _did_ you fall in love with me, Natalya?"

She doesn't answer him.

Natalya is a fast walker, but Yong Soo keeps up without a hitch. He just clasps his hands behind his head and lets her think she's going to get away, but Natalya knows better. He's persistent, and he's not going to let this go very easily. Natalya shakes her head and reaches up to fix her bow, before she coils her hair into a low, messy bun.

"I love Ivan," Natalya starts, though she's trying more to convince herself than him, "and it's my job to make sure nobody gets in between us. I don't like Toris or his annoying friend, Feliks, but we all lived together in a big house with my brother watching over us."

She isn't sure where she's going with it. She doesn't have to find out.

"Is that your paradise, Natalya Arlovskaya?"

Natalya halts entirely, fingers curling slowly around the strap of her messenger bag. Her mind is a dark, dark place – she knows Yong Soo has no idea what he's getting himself into – and it only makes sense for her 'paradise' to be equally as dark. Natalya questions herself a lot; she wonders why she exists as _Belarus_ and not a normal girl on the street, or why she exists at all. She knows that one day, her country will fall and she will too. Just for her time here, she wants to be _happy._ Even if it isn't real. She knows Ivan will never love her – it was just that, for a long time, she'd hoped, desperately so, that it was okay to _pretend._

A little game of house.

"Paradise," she says instead, eyes sharp and cold, "does not exist. It is only a dream."

"You don't believe that."

In the end, she is a pessimist, and it is all she believes.

"Why did you invite me here, Yong Soo? It's not as though _you_ love _me._ "

His honey brown eyes fall on her again, and she's struck by the way they look a molten amber in the sunlight. For just a brief moment, the most _fleeting_ moment, she sees it – he hesitates. It's gone as soon as it comes, but it leaves her wondering, watching him closely. Yong Soo tips his head to the side.

"Why did you come?"

He avoids the question entirely and Natalya's eyes narrow. She halts and, after a quick glance around, pulls him into a nearby bookstore and in between the shelves. Yong Soo looks vaguely confused, peering around as she tugs him into a nook by the nonfiction aisles.

"Don't avoid the question."

Natalya practically feels the shift in him and steps back, cornering herself between him and the bookshelves. He doesn't raise his arms to box her in – if anything, he leaves his sides perfectly open for her to flee, should she choose to. They both know she won't go anywhere.

"What if," he starts slowly, "I _did_ love you?"

Natalya tries to read him, but Yong Soo, once an open book, is sealed closed. She can't allow herself to believe him. Natalya has these carefully crafted walls she keeps building all around her, but they're so much more delicate than people realize. But oh God, he's so close and she isn't sure if she wants to shove him away or pull him close and kiss him senseless.

"You don't," she tells him, tells herself.

Yong Soo doesn't break their stare.

"I do."

The latter wins out. Her fingers curl around his collar. He gives no resistance.

And when they part, his breathless smile is as refreshing as a cold glass of water on a scorching summer day.


End file.
